


Greenhorn

by BlackberryAvar



Category: Wings of Fire - Tui T. Sutherland
Genre: Air Force, Blackaverse, Dragons, Gen, Military, MudWings, Original Character-centric, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, SandWings, SeaWings, SkyWings, grit - Freeform, pre-written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-10-21 06:30:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackberryAvar/pseuds/BlackberryAvar
Summary: It's Dust's first assignment in the military, and he's excited to be off to the northern front - but gets tangled up in paperwork just by trying to obtain a scroll that is highly classified - on accident. Ordered to carry the scroll anyway as a placeholder for a courier who never shows up, his arrival is discouraging, and the message he bears even more so.Then, life bears down on him, and he is sent off, the letter seemingly forgotten.Pre-written by four chapters.





	1. Chapter One: Prologue

**Written by B. Avar while listening to various rock songs.**

**Disclaimer! I do not own Wings of Fire or any of the characters contained inside it. If I did, there would be constant cliffhangers. I am only publishing one of my fantasies about what could have happened that we do not see in the books. The hero of another story, if you get what I mean.**

**But yeah, there would definitely be constant cliffhangers.**

**AN:**

**Moving past my original author's note, which was written way way back in October of 2018, when planning was as foreign as aliens to me and my prose skills had yet to improve to their current point, I'd like to thank whoever may be reading this in advance, for clicking on this fic and skimming or reading it, as you no doubt are. Whipping up this prologue.... easy... whipping up the rest of the story.... hard. I'm not done yet.**

**If you want to read the entire thing, you can do that H[ere](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13105340/1/Greenhorn), but if you want to be surprised by the turn of events, stick with me on the Archive. I'm updating every three weeks until Chapter Four, and then the work will update as I write (spoilers; slowly).**

**Many thanks to LiterallyHasNoIdeasForAnOKName, who helped me massively with the next few chaps. You can check out his AO3 profile [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiterallyHasNoIdeasForAnOKName/pseuds/LiterallyHasNoIdeasForAnOKName), though he does have an account on FFN.  
**

**Take care people: I'll catch you next time.**

**B.Avar.**

**P.S. I'd appreciate it if you left feedback. Every writer dreams of getting a good review. Please help make my dreams possible, and if you feel like it, leave a suggestion too. I read and respond to every comment that I possibly can.**

**Written: sometime**

**Published on AO3: September 18th, Wednesday 2019.**

**Enjoy!  
**

Chapter One.

* * *

It was noon at the post office when a small, unsure Sandwing stepped up to the counter and asked to receive a scroll from the dragon there.

"What do you need it for?" asked the Seawing at the desk. "And what's your name?"

"I'm Dust.", said the Sandwing. "I'm being assigned to the northern front. What's your name?"

"Narwhal. But never mind about that. Exactly where on the northern front are you being assigned to? And why do you need that scroll? Speak up boy. My time is short, and you aren't on my list of couriers. The scroll you are asking for, you do realize, is highly classified information." Narwhal said, adjusting his spectacles. Seawings sometimes needed glasses to see above water.

Dust paled at the words 'highly classified', and gulped, but pressed on naìvely. "I'm being assigned to the northern front by Fort Pitt and somebody told me to carry the mail. I didn't realize it was highly classified."

"I didn't realize it was highly classified, _sir, _that's what you meant." said Narwhal.

"I didn't realize it was highly classified, sir." sputtered Dust, who was by now thoroughly mollified. "I was just told to bring the mail by the marshal's aide. I'm only six and a half."

"They just keep getting younger and younger these days." muttered the clerk. "What a clueless dragon."

"Huh?" asked Dust.

"Never mind. There are a dozen marshals in this base, I'd like you to know. Do you know which one's aide told you to do this?"

"No sir."

"Then we have a problem. You'll have to stay here until I can find someone who will vouch for you, and I won't have you leaving a moment sooner. Understood?"

"Understood sir." said Dust, his eyes now firmly glued to the floor.

"Good. Now wait here. You don't have any identification, and that makes you suspicious."

"But I'm a private. I'm not supposed to have any identification! I'm not suspicious! I'm only six!" cried Dust.

"Which makes you all the more suspicious. Your youth allows you to slip by anything and everything. No one would suspect a young private to be an agent for Blaze or Burn, no. Except for me. You are the perfect recruit for a nefarious enemy like the Skywings." Narwhal nodded to himself knowingly. "Very suspicious." he repeated. "Highly classified information indeed. Just short of top secret it is."

"Cajun, go find someone who can vouch for this most interesting and untrustworthy fellow." said the clerk to a guard, ignoring Dust's cries protesting his unsuspiciousness. "I'll handle him."

The guard left the lobby of the post office and slipped through the swinging door, leaving Dust to sulk on his feet. There were no chairs in the post office, a victim of the recent cost-cutting. There was nothing to do but wait and see if he could convince the clerk to let him go. A cursory look at the Seawing, however, disabused him of this notion, and he fidgeted while he watched the door, waiting for the guard to come back.

Sweat was forming on Dust's face and he was very nearly hyperventilating when Cajun came back in, leading an unfamiliar and distinctly annoyed looking dragon straight towards him.

"Who is this?" he asked Narwhal when he got there, and all Dust's hopes of being recognized and rescued from the embarrassing situation died a premature death. He turned to Dust.

"It certainly would seem that you've become another unfortunate victim of Narwhal's suspicions. I wouldn't worry about him too much." Dust's hopes, once crushed, now rose again. "But he is right about us not letting just any dragon through with classified papers. I'm sorry, but we'll just have to wait until we can obtain the aide in question. There's nothing else we can do, at least that's not against protocol anyway. This might take a little while."

He sent Cajun back out and mobilized a few more dragons in the search.

In the end it took an agonizing two hours to find the dragon who had given Dust the order, and it turned out that he was in a staff meeting in the intelligence division, and could not be bothered to come out and see the matter until it was finished, which took another two hours. By that time Dust's legs felt completely dead, and he was bored beyond all belief. Finally, after another thirty minutes of finagling and chastisement, he was finally authorized to carry the scroll and proceed to the northern front, not forgetting to grab a mail bag at the front door. By the time he got outside it was twilight, and he was hungry.

He visited the market outside and bought some lizards with the last of his pocket money, then retired to an isolated bench to eat them. Just when he finished his meal he remembered the scroll on which he had wasted an entire afternoon.

For a moment he was tempted to drop it on a cactus and forget about the affair, so frustrated was he. After all, what could be so important about a simple piece of parchment? He brought it out in his claw, poised to let go and let it be trampled by errant passerby, but couldn't. Dust sighed and put it back into his mail bag. He licked the crumbs off his scales and took off.

Such was his introduction to active service.


	2. Introductions and an Assignment

* * *

It was a hot, crisp afternoon when Dust finally spotted his destination, a looming fortress that stuck up from the top side of a bracken, rolling hill like a great brown island in a sea of dry and dirty shrubs interspersed with clumps of weedy grass and dehydrated bushes; choked with desiccated cacti and great sheathes of brown prairie.

From the post office in the desert he had flown many miles to reach the southern island corridor, and then on he had gone due east towards the Seawing kingdom over the Oyster Coast, only stopping at military islands to sleep the night away, to play games with the bored garrison and grab many a bite to eat, only to depart at the crack of dawn; always aiming due east towards the rising sun and rest.

Then he had reached the edge of the rainforest, where the air was languid and sticky and the moisture crept into his scales until he longed for a proper bath of sand. Even the ocean was no longer cool and teeming with life, but was now filled with warming currents and jellyfish the size of which he had never before imagined, nor ever wished to encounter again. He stopped for a day at a supply depot, and was much tentative about the many strange meats.

It took him four, almost five days to bypass that horrible rainforest, and then he found himself flying steadily more north, so that the days became cooler and more cloudy, and the nights more clear than down south, where the clouds would drizzle for days on end, if it was not outright pouring. Funnily enough, the mosquitoes never seemed to be bothered by it, and he was glad to be escaped from that territory. Here he felt that he could be his own dragon again, and he reveled in it.

Slowly he worked upwards until he began to see evidence of the Seawing kingdom's influence, whether it was from an all Seawing patrol canvassing the skies to a stockpile of fish hidden in a cave where he landed to spend the night.

Several times he was stopped by dragons wanting to know his allegiances, mostly agents of Blister, but once of Burn. It was a scary, almost surreal experience when four dragons swept out of the morning sunrise and glided down to where he was preparing to take off, having just caught himself a meal in a pronghorn antelope.

They were Skywings, and they inspected him roughly, asking him whether or not he had any identification. Fortunately he had had the presence of mind to conceal the papers showing his loyalty to Blister under a rock when he saw them coming, otherwise they would have killed him on the spot. When he had satisfied them that he was just a fledgling soldier who had lost his way they pointed him towards the nearest Skywing outpost and swooped off, swearing good-naturedly as they went, and not in the least bit suspicious it seemed, otherwise Dust thought he would have lost it.

And so it was that when he doggedly flew into a Sandwing fort belonging to his allies that he breathed a sigh of relief, even as the MP's searched him and cross-referenced his ID for any errors that might show him to be a spy. None were found, and when he told them he had to deliver a message to the officer who was in charge they ushered him to the dragon commanding the base. His name was Arroyo.

* * *

It was nearly dusk when a tired Dust was shown into a cramped brick office. He looked around. A Sandwing secretary sat by the empty fireplace with a quill in one talon and a piece of paper lying on his wooden desk. Clearly the dragon had been filling out forms before Dust had come in; as Dust watched he dipped the end of the quill into the iron inkpot – another thing that he had noticed, nothing out here was breakable -, and wrote something, then shifted the flimsy form aside, taking another one from a large stack.

Behind Dust a page scuttled away down the hall and disappeared, something that didn't exactly lend him any confidence. He didn't like the look of the place much, and the condition of its contents was leading him to steadily more disagreeable conclusions every time he looked at the evidence.

Everything smelled of sweat and grime and dirty armor that hadn't been washed in weeks, though the aide's office had a faint smell of beeswax. The furniture was plain and utilitarian, Dust thought as he took in the room, even for the military. The aide barely looked up as he came in, then went back to his paperwork. For a while nothing was said, and both sides shifted uncomfortably, each waiting for the other to make the next move.

Finally the secretary looked up at Dust as if expecting him to say something. Not knowing what else to do, Dust held his gaze.

"Well?" said the secretary. "Is this an appointment or a complaint? If this is about that scuffle in barracks two I don't want to hear any of it. Damned thing happened near a week ago and they're still complaining about their injuries."

Dust fought the urge to flinch when the dragon swore like that. It just wasn't proper for someone in the chain of command to be so crude, much less the major's secretary. Still, training took over, and he replied.

"Neither sir. I've got a message for Major Arroyo." Then his bravado ran out, and he stumbled over himself with the next few parts. "The officer in charge of this operation. I'd like to know where he is."

The secretary jerked a thumb towards a weathered door on the left side of the room that Dust had originally assumed was for a cleaning closet.

"The Major just got back from the western outposts a few hours ago. You can't miss him, " he said. "My name's Outback."

Dust shook it firmly. "Dust."

He got up and, not knowing what to expect, entered the major's office. It too was a bare and utilitarian affair. A tough-looking wooden filing cabinet stood behind a dented and scraped oak desk, on which sat a mug, an inkpot and yet more paperwork. There was only one window. On the floor lay a beaten rug, and to the side a Sandwing paced vigorously. This, Dust decided, must be the major.

He was an interesting dragon. He looked to be about in his upper thirties, grizzled and with a scar running up the bottom of his chin that intersected his mouth, only the largest of other, smaller scars. Numerous freckles dotted his scales while his eyes were an all-seeing gray that seemed to swallow Dust up in the realm of painful experience.

The major had an imposing build; while he was not heavyset nor particularly muscular, he was still strong enough that Dust could see the large bulges under his skin that rippled whenever he moved, and when he did so, it was with a practiced ease that belied his size. There were tells in the way his eyes looked about habitually, as if he kept an eye open even when he was at rest. This was not a dragon that Dust wanted to antagonize, much less fight.

He walked with a limping gait, and it was only now that Dust realized that one of his wings was in tatters. And while the private had been observing the major. the major had also been watching the private.

Presently Arroyo snorted and his nostrils flared. Evidently he had found something about Dust that he disliked, for he wheeled away and strode to his seat with an air of finality.

"So," he began. "What's this business about a scroll? My men have told me quite a bit about you, Dust, but I want to see you with my own eyes before I pass any judgment."

His voice was deep but clear, and when he spoke there was no trace of the lisp that had plagued many of the city dragons Dust had talked to in the numerous camps and bazaars back in his home country. His manner exuded an aura of confidence, but he was almost unmistakably weary. It was not a physical weariness, nor a lack of fortitude on that front, but a mental sense of fatigue that Dust had never seen before. He looked almost sad.

"I was told to deliver an urgent message to you, sir. There was no one else available for the job, so they chose me to carry it here."

Dust noticed the odd look on Arroyo's face. "Is there a problem sir?" he asked, a sense of worry beginning to creep up on him.

"No, there's nothing wrong." said the major. "Normally I would direct you to take your letter to our post office, but as you can see, I already have plenty of paperwork on my talons and I don't need to add any more to the pile." He gestured towards the pillar of forms on his desk and smiled.

The ice was broken, and Dust began to relax, although he was still tense.

"Pass me the letter, and I'll see what this is all about."

Dust dutifully gave him the small piece of parchment, letting the major take it and open it with his thumb. He watched as the dragon began to read. At first Arroyo seemed bored with it, as if it was just yet another official letter that he had no care for. But then his expression became steadily more concerned, and then alarmed. When he reached the end of it he rolled up the scroll and resealed it, laying it on his desk, putting on a straight face for the confused private in front of him.

What could have concerned this grizzled war veteran so much that he had lost his composure in front of a new recruit? Dust didn't know, but he was intrigued all the same.

By this point it was almost dark outside, and Arroyo brought out several candles from within one of his drawers, setting one on his desk and two others around the room, then lit them gently with a puff of his firebreath. Instantly the walls flickered with crackling orange light and a dragon-sized shadow leapt into existence behind him.

"Do your orders dictate that you're just passing through or are you staying here?" asked Arroyo when he had finished with the tapers. "Our front lines are stable, but only just, and I need extra dragons to buffer them wherever I can."

"I don't know, sir." admitted Dust. "I was only told to head to Fort Pitt and deliver my message to you. I didn't receive any other orders." He kept the little factoid that that was because he'd been forced to leave more quickly than he'd liked to himself.

Arroyo snorted, although he tried to hide it. "Looks like the brass was in such a hurry they forgot to give you another set of instructions. Out here it'll be months before anything happens to you. The best I can do is give you a good unit, one that will take care of its recruits."

He rapped his talons on his desk a few times, thinking.

"Before you go, ask Outback to assign you to forty-fourth brigade in the north. It's hard fighting up there and they've recently suffered some casualties, but they're experienced. They'll show you the ropes."

"Yes sir."

"And you don't have to say sir all the time. We're at war now, and there's no time for it. Call me Arroyo, and major whenever we have visitors, if only to keep up the proper decorum. I'll give you a night's rest, you've certainly earned it. Report to Sergeant Savannah in two days. He'll give you what you need. That will be all."

It took Dust a moment to realize that he was being dismissed, and he saluted hastily, then turned to go, nearly stumbling over himself as he crossed the threshold, closing the door with his tail as he went. It shut with a muffled thud.

Only once he was away from the major did he realize that he had never asked about what was in the message, and he would've slapped his forehead except for the fact that he had been trained out of it in boot camp by his sadistic drill sergeant.

Outback was still in his office, which Dust had come to think of more as a lobby, writing to himself on a piece of paper that did not appear to be a standard form; and he quickly slid it under his desk when Dust approached.

"I saw you doing something just now. What was it?" Dust asked.

"A letter. It's nothing important." said Outback, sounding rather vague.

"Is it family?" said Dust, thinking wistfully back to his own, who were still living in the desert town where he had been born, close to the dangerous no-man's land between the northern edge of the rainforest and Burn's fortress.

"Yes. I don't see them much these days."

"Okay. Well, I'm just stopping by 'cause Major Arroyo told me to ask you to put me in with the forty-fourth brigade, and I need you to do that for me. Sir."

Outback's face immediately took on an expression of annoyance. "Alright, alright. It beats filing complaint forms any day."

"Paperwork is always boring." said Dust, and Outback gave a wry smile.

"I should know. Still, it has to be done."

He began looking through his drawers, and then, as if he had suddenly remembered something, turned around and started shuffling through the filing cabinet.

"Hmm." he said as he lifted up a folder and looked at the title, then shoved it down again. "Was it the forty-fourth brigade or the forty-eighth?"

"Forty-fourth."

"Courier work?"

"No. Just as a regular soldier. I'm leaving day after tomorrow. I have to get some rest from that long flight."

"How long?" asked Outback.

"From the southern side of the Sandwing kingdom all the way up here, straight. I did it in less than a week."

"That's almost two-thousand miles. You're a strong flier. Did you win any awards?"

"No. More's the pity,." said Dust. "I hated that jungle."

"That's always the worst part of the flight, what with all those mosquitoes."

"The rain never seems to bother 'em. They always bit me just when I was the most cold and wet."

"Me too."

"You sound like you've made the flight more than once."

"Five times, actually. Once here, once back to see my family, then back here again, then three months of leave, and then another flight to the fort this spring."

"You're a busy secretary."

"I prefer the term 'aide'. It's more dignified," said Outback, turning his attention to the files. "Aha! Here they are. Hang on one moment for me to get all the information; then I can sign the nine-forty and you'll be out of here."

"Let me see. Forty-fourth, forty-fourth. Looks like a tough assignment Dost."

"It's Dust, actually."

"Sorry, sorry. When you have to deal with half the base every week you tend to forget a few names here and there."

"It's alright. Now what's this about forty-fourth being a tough assignment?"

"Let's just say that forty-fourth has been in a tight spot this month."

"What kind of a tight spot?" asked Dust, still too naive to guess what that really meant.

"There we are," said the aide, pointedly ignoring him. "They're currently at Fort McCracken with the thirteenth tagging along."

"That wasn't what I asked," said Dust, who was still being ignored.

"Normally I'd have Lieutenant Savannah do this, or Sandstorm or Mesa, but you're a special case. Here's the nine-forty."

Outback starting writing in the form, then stopped.

"What's your last name?"

"Sonderi."

"That's a good name, old too, though I'm not sure what it means."

"It's been in the family for generations, but I probably know less about it than you do," said Dust, as Outback finished his part of the form with a flourish. He pushed it forward.

"Sign here."

Dust scanned the form quickly. The top part had too much legalese for his liking, and the aide seemed to have it covered, so he skipped to the bottom where the important parts were.

'_This document certifies that __Private Dust Sonder__i__ has been assigned __to __Forty-Fourth Brigade__ as of __July 5__,006__, __standard,_ _by __Second__ Class Warrant Officer of the Army __Outback __Betru__.'_

Beneath that was Outback's signature, and next to it was an empty space for his own. Dust wrote his name in bad cursive, and it was done.

"I seem to have better handwriting than you." said Outback, looking at the page.

"It's fine. Where I come from, you're lucky if you learn how to read."

"Ah."

Dust took the paper and tucked it away inside his military issue satchel.

"Anything else, or should I head to the barracks now?"

"Nope. The barracks are full right now, actually. You'd be better off sleeping in the triage camp outside the fort. There's more space and they've already set up some temporary accommodations."

"Where's that?"

"Just go through the gates and look left. You can't miss it."

"Thanks." said Dust, and walked out of the office and into the hall. It was two flights of stairs to the bottom floor, and Dust, tired and sore as he was, fought back a groan every step of the way. Still, he soon found himself trotting outside, past a set of alert guards and through the gate, towards the savory smell of meat being roasted and quiet laughter.

The fort sat on top of a large, rolling hill, and around the stone walls was a huge field of tents and campfires that stretched away for a hundred yards in all directions almost to the dwindling forest – a little wasteland in the bottoms punctuated by tree stumps and tough-looking weeds that covered the ground like the healing tissue of a giant scar.

It looked like there was half a battalion camped out there, at least, and maybe another brigade and a few companies on the side. Perhaps a thousand dragons in all, not including those who bunked inside the fort.

"Halt!" said one of the dragons, a big, gray and blue Seawing who stood in front and noticeably away from a lively campfire. Even in the dim light Dust could see that he had bandages in a wide swathe across his chest, and his front leg was wrapped in gauze. "What's your name, stranger?"

He swung a spear towards Dust's neck, and the glinting, deadly point stopped just below his chin.

"Private Dust, sir. I have the papers to prove it." said Dust, using the default Sir that he had been taught to use 'when in doubt of another's station'.

The sentry grudgingly lowered his weapon and pulled it back to his side, although he did not relax his ready posture.

"Minnow." he said, gruffly, and frowned. "There's no need for me to see your papers; the Corporal will take care of that for you. Come on, I'll take you to him."

And with that he turned and started trotting to a line of tents, and Dust followed, stepping past the fire and the three injured dragons beside it. They watched him go with what seemed like pity, then went back to talking among themselves when he had gone. Their actions set the theme for the rest of the camp.

True, there were some who played poker around tables and enjoyed themselves in telling old jokes to their own, but the atmosphere was mostly grim with only a hint of excitement, which Dust guessed came from the prospect of a hot supper.

They passed formerly white tents and soiled gambesons set out to dry on what looked like old laundry lines but were now covered in mud and dirt, until Minnow stopped in front of a wooden longhouse that stuck out like a sore thumb. It too was dirty, although not as much as the other dwellings in the camp, and worn stairs suggested that it had seen frequent use.

Minnow stepped up to the porch and knocked on the door with a loud rap, five times. There was a pause. "Hold on, there's a guy knocking fit to break down the door, go get it." said someone inside, and presently it was opened by a rusty claw and the two younger dragons shooed in.

Two Sandwings sat before a checkerboard, evidently playing the landlubbers version of the game, and it was a Seawing who had opened the door.

"Come on in Minnow." he said. "Who's your friend there? I don't recognize him."

"A newbie from the western front. His name's Dust."

* * *

**A/N:  
**

**I hope you enjoyed this update and I had a lot of fun writing it. I definitely appreciate thoughtful, constructive criticism and I would like to hear your thoughts in the comment box down below. Thanks!  
**

**Published on AO3 October 2nd, Wednesday 2019.  
**

**Cheers! B. Avar.**


	3. In Which Dust introduces Himself

* * *

The inside of the longhouse was lit by a warm fire in a fireplace made of rough stone, over which lay a rude granite countertop for cooking. An iron poker leaned against the wall in a corner, tipped with gray ash. The floor was hewn from hardwood, Dust saw, which kind he did not know. 

There was little furniture; a trio of chairs sat by a small, unpolished table near what Dust took to be an open window that didn’t actually have any windowpanes, which was confirmed when a summer breeze wafted in and brushed against his scales, before playing with the fire and blowing out onto the porch.

Three thin bedrolls were in the opposite corner from the poker; stringy and threadbare, they looked like they had seen much use and little patching; on top of them were what looked like medical supplies.

Having finished exploring the cabin, Dust’s eyes returned to the two Sandwings  standing by the checkerboard,  both of whom had been  watching him since he’ d come in.  They were officers, he knew, by the  chevrons that  decorated their shoulder straps.

“A new guy, huh.” said one, the largest of the pair. “What rank? He looks a little young to be out here.” His companion subtly shoved him with a wing. 

“Private,” said Minnow. “He needs someone to look over his papers; wants to stay in the triage field.” 

The smaller officer looked at Dust. What he saw was not a pretty sight.  The dragon in front of him was thin, almost to the point of being gaunt, and he sounded  weary, most likely exhausted.  He wore no armor, not even a gambeson,  and his stance was not that of a dragon accustomed to combat.

“Alright,” said he. “I’m Corporal Aster. Why don’t you sit down for a minute and I’ll get this over with.” He pushed forward the third chair and beckoned Dust forward, who gave him his papers, nodded gratefully, and took a seat.

“Who’s your companion?” asked Dust.

“Sergeant Major Sandstorm.” said the larger dragon. “And don’t you forget it.” He had a gruff voice, one that was not unkind yet at the same time clearly meant business. Dark yellow scales and shaded yellow eyes defined his outward appearance along with an oval shaped scar on his torso and many others. His left ear was chopped off at the lobe, and his wing was slightly bent, but in all other respects he looked like a healthy Sandwing, fit for the front. 

Aster shuffled through the forms. 

“Well, it looks like everything’s in order. I hate to say this since you’ve probably already been pored over and inspected and poked and prodded by the MP’s, but I can now say that you are clean. Congratulations and welcome to Fort Pitt.”

“Sturgeon, go find Cooky and tell him to prepare an extra slab of venison for our new arrival. I’ll eat with the soldiers tonight, if I don’t have any pressing patients.” said Aster, this time to a Seawing. 

Venison?  Dust didn’t know what that was. There was much to learn up here, apparently, and he’d missed out on some things.

Sturgeon was the the one who had opened the door,  and he hurried out towards the  canteen at the center of the camp  while Minnow lingered on the porc h,  waiting until he was dismissed. 

“You can go back to sentry duty Minnow.” said Aster. “Or is your sling still bothering you? I had Kit fix it up but she might have missed a spot.” 

Minnow refused to say anything, but he fidgeted  uncomfortably  and drew his leg closer to his chest,  his eyes flicking between it and the friendly face of the corporal. 

Aster strode over  and tried  to take the injured leg so that he could inspect the wound , but Minnow shied away  and spread his wings,  still refusing to say  anything. 

“Come now. I’m not going to hurt you.” said Aster. “I just want to have a look at this.” and with that he took Minnow’s leg gently in one talon and traced his claws along the injury with the other, undoing the gauze as he went. A thick red line tore through the front half of Minnow’s lower leg, surrounded by dried blood that had crept into his bandage and smeared over his forearm. 

“This looks like it’s been weeping. Are you sure you haven’t put too much pressure on it?” asked Aster. “I’m going to clean this scab and then get you some clean cloth to wrap it in. Just stay here until I get back, and that’s an order.” 

“Corporal, this isn’t necessary.” said Minnow. “I know you like to take care of your patients but I really think I should be going now.” 

“Nonsense.” said Aster. “It’ll only take me a minute and it’ll save you pain in the long run.” 

He strode over to the rear of the cabin, searching for the triage box he always kept near him. “I could have sworn I put my mesh over here somewhere.” he muttered. “Aha! Here it is.” He took the medium sized container off the bedrolls and reached for a small bucket of water, then walked back to the porch. 

“Is Aster a medic?” Dust asked Sandstorm as he watched the corporal scrub off the caked blood on Minnow’s leg, only stopping when the larger Seawing grimaced. 

“Not really.” said the taller officer. “He applied for the medical corps when he joined, but he failed the test for stressful situations; they let him stay on as an assistant in the field hospitals. Eventually he got promoted and then transferred here a few years back, and that was that.” 

“So he’s more of a doctor then.”

“Yeah. He cares too much. The barracks here are mostly full of wounded soldiers. Guess he’s found his place. He practically owns the infirmary.”

There was a comfortable silence, broken only  by the quiet breeze  and the sound of Aster  doing his work. 

“So,” said Dust after a little while. “Who runs this place, sir? Other than Major Arroyo, I mean.” 

Sandstorm considered for a moment,  bit his lip. 

“Lieutenant Savannah, for sure. Outback, although he doesn’t know it. Belmet takes care of the supplies. He’s the head freighter for the region, but he isn’t often at the fort. Other than that it’s hard to say. Mesa, the warrant officer, Aster and myself, I suppose. I’m Arroyo’s go-to man when problems come up.” 

“Is this a Sandwing run fort?” 

“Mostly. There are Seawings around, but they’re mostly soldiers. Everyone important is a Sandwing, except for the marines. They keep to themselves, on good days.” 

“Marines? I’ve never heard of those..”

“Her Royal Majesty’s Finest Continentals. They’ve been sitting tight on the fort ever since they arrived and refuse to budge, no matter what Arroyo can do or say.”

“I thought they were our allies.” 

“They are. There’s more Seawings fighting out here than you’d think, and a lot of good ones too. It’s just the marines I don’t like. Too stuck up and arrogant if you ask me, but I can’t do anything about it. They follow ‘higher authorities’. We Sandwings don’t have jurisdiction over those lot.” 

“Oh.” Dust said nothing as he processed the information, but quickly piped up again. “What about the MP’s? Who’s in charge of them, sir?”

“Savannah, when he’s not busy with the armory or out at the front. Then it’s Mesa’s turn.”

Dust held his tongue for a moment. It looked to him like the chain of command was looser here than back home, but he didn’t dare say anything for fear of being rebuked.  He decided to change the subject. 

“Where’d you get that scar? It looks like a spear wound.” 

“You’re right. I took a glancing hit from a Mudwing once that went straight through my gambeson. He was a nasty bugger, but I got him.” 

Dust whistled. “Whew!  If that was only a glancing hit I don’t want to see what a real one looks like.  Those Mudwings must be stronger than I’d thought.  I knew they were  powerful but not  by this much. Straight  through the gambeson too.  Nasty. ”

“It was.” said Sandstorm. “They had to put me on a stretcher and haul me back to the field hospital doubletime. I was in critical condition for a few days, or so they tell me, but Aster fixed me up well enough. It was a couple years ago, back when he was a surgeon.” 

“Aster saved your guts? I didn’t know that.” said Dust. “From the way you two act I wouldn’t think he was even friends with you, much less kept you alive.”

“Well, he didn’t do that much.” said Sandstorm, and Dust could have sworn he was hedging. “If he hadn’t been around somebody else would’ve done the job. But I suppose you could look at it that way.” 

There was a pause.

“What’s your story?”

“I don’t have much of one,” admitted Dust, “but I can share it if you like sir.” Unlike Major Arroyo, Sandstorm didn’t seem to be bothered when Dust called him sir. Maybe it fed his sense of self-importance. 

“There’s time enough until supper, and I’m curious. Go on.” 

A whippoorwill called  from somewhere outside of the fort, and  far off came the staccato rattling of a woodpecker hammering into an ash tree. 

“Well, I enlisted last year because.. why I can’t say. Maybe it had something to do with my baby brother getting smashed by a rock in an aerial bombardment, or perhaps because my sister went into the intelligence service; I don’t know. It’s dangerous back there in the desert.”

Sandstorm  nodded.  He too knew the dangers  of the former Sandwing kingdom, where armies clashed constantly and  large border skirmishes  were fought at every hour of the day and night. 

“One day I found myself in front of a recruitment poster and I knew that I wanted out. I thought I could actually do something to change the course of the war. The next thing I knew I was signing up for the army and leaving my family behind for a lonely training ground in the middle of nowhere and a sadistic drill sergeant, no offense intended.” 

“None taken. What was the name of the drill sergeant?”

“Cholla, why? He was as prickly as the plant.” 

“I had an instructor just like that once. He didn’t have much brains though. He was a big orange fellow with an ornery temper.”

“Same here. What was your guy’s name?”

“Antlion.” 

Dust began to laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” demanded Sandstorm, annoyed that he had been left out of the joke. 

“I think Cholla is Antlion’s nephew. He talked about his uncle constantly.” 

Sandstorm winced. “ I almost feel sorry for you.” 

“Ha ha.” said Dust. “But anyway, they didn’t teach me much more than the basic stances and how to use the equipment; rank and formations, that kind of stuff. Our weapons were all fake and I only got to handle a real one twice. I only had one friend in that place, Beryl, and he got sent off to fight in the north. I don’t know what’s happened to him. We were two sides of the same coin, inseparable.” 

Sandstorm opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. 

“I stayed there for five months and then me and my brigade had to ship out, but I got left behind at the last moment in town because of a routing error.”

Sandstorm muttered. “Bureaucrats,”  but otherwise stayed silent. 

“By the time I realized my brigade had left without me they were long gone. I ended up getting finagled into delivering a message for a marshal in the place of a courier who hadn’t shown up.”

“What was in the message?” 

“I don’t know. I didn’t open it, and it was classified to start with. Even if I knew what was in it I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

“Let me guess, you had to deliver the message here.”

“Yep, straight to Major Arroyo. And that’s how I ended up on this rock. He seemed oddly bothered by it, funnily enough.” 

“Interesting,” said Sandstorm “Don’t be too ashamed. That little mishap probably kept you alive. The survival rates for new recruits out there in the desert aren’t exactly high. I would view it less as a failure on your part and more of a stroke of good luck.”

“But what about my friend?” 

“It’s not my place to answer that question. Either Beryl’s alive or he isn’t, and there’s no use kicking yourself about it until you see him again, alive or dead.”

Dust sighed. “ I’ve feared the worst for him ever since he left.”

“He must worry about you then,” observed Sandstorm. “He sounds like a good companion.” 

“He was – is.” 

There was an awkward pause in the conversation, but thankfully it was at this moment that Aster finished wrapping Minnow’s leg, after having cleaned it most thoroughly and inspected it with all the clinical  speed of a bat in hibernation.

“That should take care of the problem for you. It might itch still but the wound won’t rub.” said the corporal as he tugged on the gauze to make sure that it was sealed properly. “You had some dandruff under your scales; make sure you keep them clean and don’t get any dirt in there. I’m running out of mesh these days, I’m afraid, so I won’t be able to give you new bandages any time soon,” at this Minnow breathed a sigh of relief, “but we’ll have to make do with regular cloth. If you feel any pain go ask Kit to help you, if you can’t help yourself; I haven’t had much spare time recently. Anything else?” 

“No. Nothing at all.” said Minnow rather hastily, looking like he would brave a den of scorpions if it meant getting away from the doctor.

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m very sure. Besides, I need to get back to my wing. They’ll miss me.” 

Aster looked unconvinced, but let him go. Dust watched as the Seawing  trotted away  toward his side of the camp as fast as he could  walk without seeming disrespectfu l. Aster looked on until Minnow was out  of sight, then  put away the bucket of warm water with his long tail and gathered up his medical supplies, humming as he did so. 

“When’s Sturgeon getting back?” asked Dust, whose stomach felt as if it had had a hole bored into it with a hand-drill and then emptied with a bucket. “He’s been gone for a while. And what’s that chirping noise? It’s driving me crazy.” 

“Sturgeon won’t take any longer than he needs to. It’s probably fine.” said Sandstorm. “And that ‘noise’ is a cricket. I think it’s more like a chorus.” 

“It sounds more like a hornet’s nest to me. There must be hundreds of them! I wonder what a cricket is anyway. They sound like sand rattles.” asked Dust, who had never heard one before. 

Sandstorm  smiled  evilly . “ A cricket is a giant insect about twice the length of your thumb and about as wide as your talon.  They have big fangs too, like two  big stabby needles.  There are more than hundreds;  it must be thousands of ‘em, hundreds of thousands.  They have big legs,  as big as their bodies. Jump like fleas, they do.” 

“Are they poisonous?” asked Dust, who had a small fear of venomous animals, Sandwings not included. 

“Very poisonous.” said Sandstorm. “Smart, and extremely aggressive. They’re bloodsuckers, and they like the taste of dragon, especially the younger ones. I’ve known many good warriors who were felled by roaming cricket packs before their time. It’s a shame really.” 

Dust did not  like the picture Sandstorm was painting,  and though he was pretty sure he was being hazed, he couldn’t be certain  that  it wasn’t based on a glimmer of truth. 

“With all due respect, sir, I think you’re lying to me, because the last time I checked bugs didn’t get that big.” 

“I swear I’m telling the truth by the scars on my chest and my honor as a Sergeant Major. Just ask any of the soldiers in this camp. They know the dangers of crickets. They’ll tell you I’m not lying.” 

Dust was about to make a sharp retort when Aster cut into the conversation. 

“Don’t pay any attention to him Dust; he’s just pulling your leg. And as for you Sergeant, pick on someone your own size. Just because he’s a tenderfoot doesn’t mean you have to bother him this much. Go on, shoo, shoo!” 

Sandstorm made  a few weak protests but  stepped out of the longhouse  anyway  and sauntered off with a smug  grin on his face  and a bounce in his step,  whatever business he had with the corporal quite forgotten.

“I’m sorry if Sandstorm irritated you.” said Aster. “He likes to tease the new boys.” 

“It’s no problem sir. I can handle it.” Dust made a mental note to ask someone about the whole cricket thing as soon as he had the chance, preferably one of his bunkmates. 

“Here comes Sturgeon now.” said Aster suddenly.

Dust turned.  Yes, a dragon was  ambling over the slight hill towards them  at a crisp  canter, but Dust could not immediately tell whether or not he was a Seawing,  though he trusted Aster’s judgment.  The dragon drew closer and  his dark outline became that of Sturgeon, empty-clawed and frowning. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Aster as soon as Sturgeon had come within hearing range. “Did Cooky spill the salt into the stew again, or is it something else?” 

“I passed Sandstorm on my way back; he was chuckling to himself and I’m wondering if I should be concerned.” 

“I don’t think so. He was only messing with the newcomer here, it’s nothing to be worried about.” 

“If you say so sir.”

“How long until supper?” 

“Ten minutes, give or take. One of the charcoal stoves quit working again and Mesa’s men are still working on the thing. It’s the fifth breakdown this month. You hungry?” This last was directed towards Dust.

“Starving.” said he. 

“When are the new ovens getting here from the delta?” asked Aster, ignoring Dust.

“Not for another three weeks; the word on the grapevine is that Belmet got hit by a Skywing raid down south and they’re still picking up the pieces. He’s too busy with everyone else’s supplies to worry about Cooky’s things way out here.”

“That’s a shame. I was looking forward to having our midday lunch actually happen at noon.” 

They  chuckled at the grim humor,  but not for long. 

It was shortly after that that  a large bell clanged out a slow ringing that announced the serving of a meal.  Like a nest of swarming bees headed straight for a smear of honey, t he camp  suddenly  got up and headed straight for the  canteen at the center of the camp as if struck by a match,  Dust included. 

The canteen was a wide, grimy tent that resembled one that you would find at a fairgrounds, with sturdy metal poles driven into the gravelly turf – making them out of iron saved the soldiers the work of rebuilding the structure from the ground up every time it burned down -, and small campfires lining the perimeter, while under the canopy cauldrons simmered with soup for famished dragons.

There was a long line for the stew, and someone passed Dust a tin dish and a large wooden spoon for him to eat with. Finally his turn came; the cook filled his bowl with a sparing ladle and he was shooed away so the next man could have a turn. 

“That’s not as much food as I expected,” noted Dust when he had rejoined Aster at one of the mess tables, raising his voice to make himself heard above the chatter of the crowd. His plate was only half-full. 

“Rations,” said Aster. “You’ll get used to it.” He shrugged. “Besides, the real meat ‘ll be along in a jiffy.” 

Dust eyed his stew for a moment before  filling his spoon and taking a sip.  The soup was a bit too hot for his liking. 

“Ow!”

Aster looked up. “Did you s cald your self ?”  he asked. 

Dust just rubbed his tongue on the back of his mouth and said nothing. 

“Yes. That hurt, a lot.” 

“Cooky does have a habit of keeping his broth heated. Is it really bad, or just bad?” 

Dust almost said that it was quite painful, but remembered what had happened to Minnow and quickly changed his tune. “ It’s not too bad.  It tingles but the  burning feeling’s faded away.”

“Good to know.” said Aster. “You’re not the first new dragon to get surprised like that, and you’re certainly not the last. Just be thankful it’s not MREs.” 

“They taste like bricks. Edible bricks with a tiny bit of flavor.” 

Aster laughed;  only the second time Dust had heard him do so. It was  a  quiet chuckle,  and he wondered what Aster would’ve been like if he’d never joined the corps.

The three dug into their meal, but Dust  ate faster than everyone else. By the time  Sturgeon was halfway through his bowl the private had already eaten all of his and was now enjoying the warm food, the first he’d had s ince  last night.  The ready to eat rock in his satchel that he’d  had  this morning didn’t count,  and h is body was still thirsting for nutrition. 

There was a small commotion at the opposite end of the canteen  and a dragon emerged  and took the pots of soup off of the serving table,  carrying one  cauldron in his front talons and another with his tail,  hoisting both by their steel handles. 

“What’s that guy doing? I can’t see why he’s taking away the stew when there might be more left.” said Dust. 

“It’s to prevent anyone from getting more than his fair share.” said Aster. “Watch.”

The tension in the room had gone up by a notch, Dust noted, and there seemed to be an air of anticipation which had not been present a moment before.

There was a clattering in the kitchen, and another Sandwing came out balancing a long tray of all kinds of meat. He set it down on the wooden table and wiped his brow before beating a hasty retreat back to the galley. 

“What on Pyrhhia -” Dust began, but he was interrupted. As soon as the Sandwing was through the door everyone in the mess hall had gotten to their feet and was headed straight for the table, including Sturgeon and Aster, who were off like streaks. In less than five seconds Dust was sitting confused and alone.

“Hey, wait up!” yelled Dust, and bounded after them. The crowd of dragons had clustered together and were digging in with a will; Dust had to squeeze himself between two bigger dragons to get inside, and even then he had to duck under tall heads and step over waving tails if he wanted to force himself through the crush. One of the only good things about being the second to youngest of his family was that he had learned to be more agile over the years. 

He struggled between three  dragons  and popped  out into the front.  Some of the flesh looked cooked, some looked raw, but he wasn’t familiar with any of it.  It looked like they had different  animals  up here from what he was used to,  although there were several  kinds of fish that looked  almost like the ones back home.

A tall dragon  jostled him with a wing  and nearly bowled him over.  Dust spun around with a sharp retort, but it died on his lips.

“Hello Dust. I didn’t see you there.” said a voice. It was Sandstorm. “You look surprised.” 

“I am. I didn’t see you in the mess, sir. I thought you were eating somewhere else.” 

“A bolt fell out in one of the cookstoves and I had to help fix it. I had some stew while I was in the kitchen.” 

Sandstor m grabbed  some m eat shortly before it would’ve been gobbled up by another soldier,  and Dust did the same.

“Ah,” said Dust. “If it was only a bolt, what was the big problem?” 

“The oven was hot when it came apart. It was one of the pieces that was the hardest to get to, so we had to wait for the racks to cool down before we could do a repair. The screw is about this big,” and here Sandstorm held up his talons. The distance between them was about the size of a quarter. “and if it goes the whole thing collapses under its own weight, not to mention it’s located in a recess smaller than the width of your tail. Someone had to go fetch a pair of pliers before we could even fit the washer on top of the bore.” 

“This had better be an uncommon occurrence, otherwise our meals will never get served on time.” 

“Then you’ll be disappointed. It’s happened twice this week.” 

They meandered away from the group and stopped at the edge of the tent. Above them a field of stars twinkled gracefully while the rising moon cast a halo over the line of clouds ascending from the west. Palish purple spots glowed and then faded away as lightning rippled within the walled bank. 

“That’s a bad gale,” said Sandstorm. “There won’t be much fighting on the front tonight, not while it’s raging like that.” 

“I didn’t know it was the rainy season in the Skywing kingdom. There must be more precipitation in the north then, if we’re getting hit during the summer, sir.” 

“That’s not quite how it works. Out here it storms constantly.” 

“Constantly?” asked Dust. He tore off a bite of the strange flesh in his claws, chewing experimentally. It was tough and rangy, but it had a good taste to it, and he ate away at the rest of it while Sandstorm talked. 

“Yep. Whenever the weather damn well pleases, and it lets us know about it when it does. We have blizzards in the winter and torrential thunderstorms in the summer, and don’t even get me started on spring; it’s something all to itself.” 

“What happens in the spring?” said Dust, who was picking up on the sergeant’s sense of humor. 

Sandstorm gave the young private a  _ look _ , then  went back to talking. 

“Well, you asked for it. In the spring all the snow that accumulated over the winter turns into slush. That turns the ground into a bog to give the diamond spray delta a run for its money. All that mud undermines the foundations of every building between the ocean and Scarlet’s palaces.” 

Sandstorm waved  a  yellow wing at the canteen. 

“Do you have any idea how many times we’ve had to rebuild this?”

Dust shook his head. 

“I remember one year when we redid the stakes nine times. We were covered in mud for the entire experience. There was mud everywhere. There was mud on the bedrolls, mud in our gambesons. Our mops got crusty with it. Eventually Arroyo just gave up and had us eat in the keep, and even that was unstable. Not to mention what happens to our weapons and ammo when the moisture gets in. Does that answer your question?”

“Yessir.” 

“Good.” 

“Well, actually I was wondering about another thing.” 

Sandstorm must’ ve suppressed a groan. “ Fine .” 

“Okay. If it rains so much, why is there still any scrub? I would’ve thought it would all be replaced by greenery.” 

“The water drains into the streams whenever there’s a downpour. It’s why there’s so many gorges.” 

“How come it doesn’t erode the hillsides then?” 

“I’m going to choose not to answer that question. My turn.” 

“What do you have to ask?” said Dust. 

“Hold on a minute.” said Sandstorm. He swallowed the last of the wild turkey he’d been eating whole, not even stopping to chew. Of all the dragon tribes, Sandwings found it the easiest to swallow their prey without having to bother about using their teeth. 

“I’m fine now.” said Sandstorm. “You said that you enlisted in the army. Which weapons did you train with?” 

“Spear and poleaxe. Like I said, it was a mixed experience.” 

“Ah. It’s a good old weapon, the spear. It was my first weapon. Do you have any practice with ranged weapons? Bows, crossbows, scorpios?” 

“I can use a crossbow somewhat, but I’m not a very good shot. I only got to use one once, and I missed almost every time. I suppose I could use a scorpio in a pinch, but I haven’t had any practice with it.” 

“We’re going to need to fix that. Tomorrow morning you should go to the firing range and hone your skills; it shouldn’t be too hard.” 

“Where is it?” 

“Outside the fort. It’s hard to miss. I wouldn’t try to get in before afternoon though” 

“I’d prefer not to.” said Dust. “Are you going to be there?” 

Sandstorm shrugged. “It depends. There’s always stuff that  needs to be done in a place this big.  Maintenance, lookout duty,  or goodness forbid, paperwork.  I can’t promise anything.”

They shared a mutual chuckle,  and there was a good-natured quiet for a while  as the two lingered outside of the canteen , broken only by the sounds of the camp and the c onstant chorus of the crickets. 

“Forget target practice, tomorrow I’m going cricket hunting.” said Dust. “This is getting unbearable.” 

“How’s that going to help you?” asked Sandstorm. “For all you know you might get eaten by a roving cricket pack, and then you wouldn’t have accomplished anything except for feeding the insects growth.” 

“Scratch that. You’re the one who’s impossible, sir.” 

“Very funny.” 

The shrill blast of a trumpet shattered the air, not unlike that of a bugle but slightly different. It blew for several seconds and died away before rising again. Dust knew instantly that it was the call for the first watch, and he also knew that any enlisted who were not on the first watch were to smother their fires and turn in. 

“There goes the horn.” said Sandstorm. “I’d better get a move on. See you later Dust, and don’t get eaten by bugs.” 

Anything Dust might have sai d was  blown away by  the next  trumpet blast  as Sandstorm trotted  away in the direction  of the  officer’s cabin.  T here were too many tents to glide. 

D ust himself  helped blow out the lamps  around the canteen a nd put out  the campfires.  Whatever  else  could be said about these frontier dragons,  he had to admit that they were  quick.  One by one the lights dimmed  and went out until  only the glow of handheld lanterns  remained, and soon those too were gone. 

The last thing Dust  would remember  of that night  would be  the memory of throwing himself on an empty bedroll.

* * *

**Published on AO3 on Thursday October 24th, 2019.**


	4. In which Dust has an Interim

**Written: April 25** **th** ** – ** **September 16** **th** **.**

**Edited: September 16** **th** ** \- **

**Published on AO3 Wednesday November 13th, 2019.**

* * *

The shrill sound of the morning bugle woke Dust from his slumber, body sore from sleeping on the hard, rocky ground. He’d had it worse in the jungle. Then the humidity had made his scales itch and slough away, exposing tender flesh to the biting insects. One last moment of precious rest – then came the buzzing of a mosquito; he slapped at it and missed.

Oh well. He’d been having a bad dream anyway.

Already dragons were scrambling out of their tents, given only a moment to find their bearings before they hustled off to roll call in the square courtyard, sweeping up Dust with them. He was confused for a moment by the rush, bumped and jostled by all of the larger dragons going around him and forming up in a line until someone pushed him into the front row, wherever that was.

There was barely enough room here for all of them, and it was a tight squeeze, but Dust found his place underneath the chin of a much larger soldier. From here he could see everything in front of him – everyone else was organized into large groups, company sergeants going up and down the line and calling out names.

A thin mist had settled on the ground and the thin grass was heavy with dew, waxing sunlight setting the eastern side of the fort aglow with brilliant red and orange light that reflected off the Sandwings scales and glinted on the blade of a tired sentry’s drooping spear.

Dust could just see a group of Seawings, set apart from all of the other units. They had their own insignias and looked like they were living for this; weapons in talon and greaves polished until Dust could see the reflection of the keep behind him in cold steel, the very picture of nobility. One of them caught his gaze, sneered, and looked away.

A master sergeant, his face cold and drawn, walked up in front of Dust, booming voice calling away, then paused, seeing Dust’s own face. One of the soldiers tapped him on the shoulder.

“Name?” The sergeant said it harshly, and Dust flinched.

“Private Sonderi, sir.”

“Full name!”

“Private Dust Sonderi, si – sir,”

The sergeant frowned, looked Dust over, snorted, and said; “You’re not one of mine. Get lost and go find your own unit.”

Dust felt someone push him away and he stumbled out onto the wet green and into the ordered chaos, barely avoiding being trampled underfoot. He’d been told to go find his unit, but then, he didn’t have a unit right now.

Behind him came the mutterings of the sergeant. “Damn rookie.”

He was screwing up already. He didn’t want to be a screw-up. Another, older and bigger Sandwing brushed past him as if he was nothing, head held high as he carried the black-and-gold standard of Blister’s forces. It fluttered in the cool morning wind, proud as the tan dragon who carried it. Even from behind, Dust could tell that he was looking almost towards the rising sun. Tall, noble, coolheaded – everything Dust wasn’t.

Dust had to find Sandstorm, had to find someone who would vouch for him before an officer came down and hammered him for not being in line or for stepping on his toes or for messing up a salute. He loped past a company of supply personnel, and, not looking where he was going, ran into another dragon, the impact nearly bowling him over.

“Aaah!”

“Watch it soldier! Where’s your company?”

Dust looked up until his neck ached and even then he could barely look into the eyes of the angry-looking, yellow Sandwing because he was short and the other was tall. He stuttered – a flashback of an angry, dark yellow drill sergeant leaning over him while the harsh desert wind blew, perhaps to mock him -

“Soldier?” The Sandwing hunched so that he was at Dust’s level.

Dust’s tongue seemed almost to be made out of lead. “I… I don’t know.. si-sir.”

“You serious?”

“Yes sir, sir,” said Dust, not sure what else to say.

The Sandwing’s eyes twitched, as if he wanted to lay into this idiot private for not knowing such basic things but didn’t have the time. “Follow me,” he said, and then trotted off so quickly that Dust almost lost him in the chaos and the noise. He scrambled to catch up, passing officers and enlisted by the dozen.

Dust didn’t ask where they were going. His talons were sopping wet from the dew by the time they reached the end of the field, where there was a small cluster of Sandwings going in and out.

“Chief Warrant Officer Mesa,” called out the Sandwing Dust was following.

A pale tan dragon stepped forward. He looked to be about in his twenties – beyond that, Dust couldn’t guess, and had a grizzled, though not quite weather-hardened face that currently held a frown at being interrupted. Unlike almost everyone else Dust had met here, he didn’t seem to have any scars. His wings seemed darker than they really were, even in the growing dawn light.

Sandstorm had said that this was one of the dragons who ran the fort.

“Warrant Officer Crescent,” said Mesa, and then noticed Dust tagging along. “Is there a problem?”

“This dumb private doesn’t have a unit,” said Crescent, and Mesa’s frown deepened. “He isn’t even carrying a spear.”

“Are you the courier who came in yesterday?” asked Mesa.

Not knowing what else to do, Dust went with “Yes sir, sir.”

“It’s a simple mix-up. He’s just army correspondence personnel, so put him in the support column and be done with it.”

“Yes sir,” said Crescent. He snorted at the shorter private; annoyed by the delay, Dust thought.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I’m in the air force, actually. The Major’s sending me to the forty-fourth soon,” said Dust. He held his breath, hoping Mesa wouldn’t be angry that he’d piped up.

Crescent looked even more annoyed.

“Fine. I’ll put you in the eleventh, at least for now. They’re short on personnel,” said Mesa, and he looked away and back to whatever he had been doing before, and when he turned Dust could see a small scar on his pale neck.

“Wait. How do I get there?” asked Dust. “Sir?”

“Omani,” said Mesa to one of the privates who had been helping him. “Take this dragon and get him a spear, then deliver him to B company, of the eleventh.”

Why did Dust feel like Mesa was getting rid of him?

“Yes sir, sir,” was the confident reply, and soon Dust found himself on the move, but this time he was not challenged as they headed to a weapons pile which was sheltered under the dirty, stone-and-earthen walls of the fort.

The spear felt unbalanced for Dust, who was small, but he’d learned to cope back at boot camp – cope or be dishonored, or die. He passed the standard-bearer again, the black-and-gold banner still fluttering in the breeze, its rippling shadow stretching away for many yards even in the light of the rising sun. Now the mist was fading away, but the grass was still wet and cold underneath his claws.

Brushing past the still shouting dragons, they reached a column of Sandwings about ten wide and five deep. Omani waited until the sergeant was out of breath and then tapped him on the wing.

“Sir, new recruit. A transfer.”

The sergeant whirled on the two, or rather on Omani. Dust guessed that he hadn’t been seen yet.

“Good news. Where is he?”

“Here,” said Omani, gesturing to Dust, who was about half a head shorter than his fellow Sandwing. The sergeant frowned.

“That midget?”

Dust wasn’t a midget, only small for his age, but the comment stung.

“Yes,” said Omani.

“Name and rank?”

“Private Dust Sonderi, sir,” said Dust. This sergeant seemed less in his face, more like Sandstorm, but Dust was still wary.

“I have a place for you at the end of the line, private. And you may know me as Lieutenant Dun, your new CO for your tour of duty – however long that may be.”

“Actually,” said Omani. “He’s only going to be in your unit for a few days, at most. Then he’s going to the front.”

Dust thought he saw a flash of pity in Dun’s eyes before it was gone and the lieutenant went back to being condescending. Maybe he’d imagined it.

“He’s my soldier now. Get in formation.”

It took some hassling, but Dust got himself arranged with the others in a straight rank, facing west towards the fractured Sandwing kingdom, his home, and he could just see the highest peaks of the blue, faraway mountains over the top of the stone-covered wall; tipped with white snow.

Then the bugle sounded, lower this time, clear notes echoing inside the fort as it blew the national anthem over long columns of tired dragons who still managed to stand proud for their tribe. The sun crested the ridge then, pouring plentiful yellow light into the courtyard as Dust held his head high.

Divider.

The day after that passed, if not in a blur, then too quickly for Dust to comprehend it all. Morning calisthenics blended into a long patrol flight under Dun’s watchful eye, with only one break for rest in the middle of it and then flight again, the air growing first humid, then hot as morning passed to noon.

Dinner, or lunch, as it was, came late for them; the company had to eat leftovers, and then, while they were digesting it, they had to help with chores on the ground.

Dust ended up helping a few dragons in logistics load mail into packing crates, presorted for the postage brigade who would take it back to the kingdom, or wherever it was destined.

Minnow was there as well, making sure that the boxes were weighted the way they were supposed to be, or they might shift during flight and cause problems for the freighter hauling them.

Dust asked, during a break in the work, if killer crickets were real.

“Of course not,” Minnow said, grumpy because of the heat, Dust thought. “Everyone knows that.”

Dust was wise enough not to say anything more about it, since it was plain to him then that Sandstorm had had him duped; he’d pulled the wool over his eyes and Dust hadn’t been able to tell that it had happened to him, even though in hindsight it was so obvious that a dragonet would’ve known.

There was a lot he had to learn about this place.

Still, something rubbed him the wrong way about it.

It wasn’t the work that bothered him; he had no aversion to working, had grown up doing work, would’ve called not wanting to do work being lazy. It was the sense of aimlessness within him; the sense that, beyond his orders, he didn’t know what he was doing here, where he was going, what he would do if he wasn’t eating, sleeping or working.

Maybe it was the mail. Minnow had told him not to read any of the mail, that it was rude to read other people’s mail, that it was against regs to read official correspondence. He’d known that.

The letters, the letters that came from ordinary soldiers, letters to home, letters to friends; they didn’t have envelopes, he could see them plain as day. It felt wrong to read their mail.

Even if it was illegible half the time.

Especially if it began with: ‘Dear Mrs. so-and-so, we regret to inform you...’ and he knew what that meant.

Always.

It meant that someone he would never know had died, and that his family, who Dust had never met, would grieve.

It was impersonal, even if the letters tried to be sympathetic. The lettering was always crisp and clear; it never wavered, as if the dragons writing it had done it so many times that it was just another chore.

The only way to not think about it was to drown his thoughts with work.

Then, in the afternoon, it was off for another patrol flight, the grime, caked on Dust’s wings and never washed, fell away in bits as he took off. He saw it spiral down to the sage-covered ground, and then he was flying so far above the earth he couldn’t see it any more, sore muscles aching in his side.

It was good to fly, to leave the world behind him, only he couldn’t leave his thoughts.

More work. More chores. More flying. More patrols.

The landscape was dry; the wet of the morning dew had been long baked away by the blazing sun, the mud dried and turned into… well, dust.

Plain-grass and pigweed and brush and cockleburrs. It was no desert, but it was arid. No trees except those that grew by a watercourse, the brooks only a trickle of water flowing through a dried-up streambed.

Land; most of it grazed by cattle. Even from the air Dust could see their tails busy swatting away flies.

There were dragons, of course. They went to and fro from the camp, tan scales looking for all the world to him like patches of sand.

No Seawings. No marines.

Then, when the golden light of afternoon had given way to the orange of evening, the hot, muggy summer day cooled by a crisp breeze, the patrol put in at last for the safety and relief of the fort.

Dust came in for a hard landing, flared his wings just in time, didn’t bother to touch down right but almost flopped onto the warm brush, still sure to keep the point of his spear well away from his body. He rolled to let the thistles scratch his back and sore muscles, then lay on the ground for a while, chest heaving.

He was first to the earth.

The others landed  with heavy thumps, talons kicking up dirt, and Dust closed his eyes to keep out the sand.  Dragons snorted and joints popped.

Someone nudged him where he lay.

“Come on. Up.”

It was reflex by now.

“Sir, yes sir,” he said, and in a second he was on his feet, wishing that he could have had a little bit more of rest.

The sergeant moved past him, then gave the company some time to brush themselves off.

“Weapons to the armory,” he said. “Supper’s in half an hour. Be punctual.”

Funny, that he put emphasis on ‘punctual’.

He didn’t know where the armory was, but the other dragons did, and he  half-walked, half-staggered after them, throwing his spear into  a pile of their spears.

A grounder would fetch th em later.

There would be more chores between now and supper, there always were. He almost groaned at the thought.

Still, he had to carry his own weight around here.

The warrant officer looked surprised when Dust asked if there was anything for  him to do; perhaps he hadn’t been expecting any volunteers, and perhaps that was why Dust was now wielding a broom, sweeping up the dirt in one of the camp tents.  The task was futile, but  at least it kept him busy.

Finally, finally the bugle blew, clear notes sounding the  call to supper. Dust stowed his broom, then trott ed down to the mess, though his  sore legs kept it to more of an amble.

The food was bland, as usual; the meat tougher this time than it had been before – another of the camp ovens had broke, so the chatter went, and everything had had to be cooked  in a pan.

Another  odd thing – that everything had to be cooked. Then, when the food was as old as this food was, maybe it had to be put over the fire.

Dust found Sandstorm  talking with another dragon at the  open end of the mess. He waited until the other left, then came outside. It was  a warm evening then, the crickets  chirping in the brush  and throwing up a racket, but Dust didn’t mind them, now that he knew they weren’t dangerous.

Just another source of noise.

He stood there for a minute before Sandstorm spoke.

“You’re back,” he said.

“Feeling like a brick,” said Dust. He ignored Sandstorm for the moment and leaned himself up against one of the benches, his head resting on the table.

“Dun running a hard patrol?”

“Heh. Yeah.” Dust yawned. “Can’t.. can’t wait for curfew and some sleep.”

“That’d do you good,” said Sandstorm.

“Pity the bedrolls are soft as a rock.”

Dust saw Sandstorm’s smile, almost wistful, and knew that the sergeant knew what it felt like.

“Feelin' cozy in this place?”

Dust curled his cheek.  It was an invitation to talk. Still, he didn’t think there was much point expressing his doubts.

“I’d rather sleep in a dune.”

“You fell asleep, at least. How's the fort treating you so far?”

“Fine.” Dust didn’t feel like opening up to Sandstorm just yet. Sandstorm would know that he wasn’t really fine, but the sergeant probably wouldn’t push it. He went on. “Dun’s a tough flier. We were faster than travel speed the whole time, on a escort mission, keeping safe the freighters. And Dun kept us higher than them, that I can understand, but we were going quick enough over their speed that we had to keep circling, and that tired out my wings.”

Escorts and patrols were supposed to go slowly, so as not to miss anything on the ground.

“He’s a hurrier,” said Sandstorm. “but he doesn’t cut corners.”

Dust didn’t know if Dun really did cut corners. He might. He seemed like the corner-cutting type,  but if Sandstorm said he didn’t cut corners th e n he probably didn’t.

Sandstorm would know.

“The fort,” began Dust, grasping for words. “It’s different from what I expected. It’s not like the post office I came here from, so clean and shiny and, and -” dared he say it, “wasteful. But it’s not like my training camp either.”

His hackles ros e when he talked about that place.

“Grime. Everything is full of dirt and dust, but there’s little sand. The fort itself – it’s big, and the land feels big, but it’s not desert big. In the kingdom we trained in tunnels underground, learned to dig into a drift and hide ourselves in less than a minute. The ground here is hard.”

“Shale,” said Sandstorm. “Try to dig in that and you cut yourself into pieces, without a shovel.”

“And the dragons here.. not callous. Not fussy, like dragons on the coast. Good people, but the regs don’t seem to apply here.”  
“You think they’re loose?”

Sandstorm’s question was quick and direct.

“No. Different. And there’s a lot of them. Lots of people. Makes me feel small, in a way, like being in the city.”

“Of course there’s going to be people. It’s a fort, and a big one at that. Don’t you feel that it’s something more? There’s organization, purpose.”

Dust privately thought that it made him feel like he was something less, but it was a selfish thought, so he kept it to himself.

“It’s order, yeah. Purpose, I can’t tell.”

“Everything helps the war effort here. It’s all to help the soldiers on the front; every weapon forged, every wound splinted, every ton of food sent to hungry mouths, every letter mailed home, every barracks built,” said Sandstorm. “All of it. There’s purpose.”

Of course he’d mentioned the letters.

“Can’t argue with that,” Dust heard himself say. “It’s just me.”

A moment of  relative silence,  though the noises of camp carried on behind them; the banging of pots  and the murmur of dragons speaking in common, punctuated by a sharp order to clear the stoves of flammables. A pause as they enjoyed the sheer feeling of doing next to nothing, looking out over the hills before them, clumps of brush growing where the old forest had been; before the Sandwings had cut down all of the trees for firewood, Dust reckoned.

On the cres t of one of th e rises , where the grass was short  and the breeze  was stronger, unimpeded by  hilltops, a dragon landed, near  brown, moving dots that were probably livestock. They shifted away  from the stranger, then went back to browsing.  
“Cattle?” asked Dust.

“Course. The fort takes care of several hundred head. That guy over there’s counting ‘em, making sure nobody stole one.”

The temptation for that was great.  Dust eyed them for a moment. “ Huh,” and later, “They look bigger than gazelles, at any rate.”

“More meat in them, though that only means we have to defend them from the crickets.”

“Minnow told me dragon-eating crickets don’t exist. I asked him while we were sorting the mail.”

“Ah, but he’s a Seawing. He’s not from around here, so he wouldn’t know.”  
“With all due respect, sir, he told me not to believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

“Don’t believe anything that comes out of his mouth,” said Sandstorm. “As I was saying, the fort takes care of a couple hundred head – maybe a thousand, at this rate.”

“I didn’t see them, when I flew in,” said Dust, glad to have pulled away the blindfold Sandstorm had fixed on him when it came to the crickets.

“They were probably drinking in the brook, under some of the tree cover over yonder,” said Sandstorm. “It’s hard to see through from the air.”  
“Not many cows, back in the desert. I heard they grazed some on the northern steppe, before the war. Sir.”  
Ah, before. A time when Dust had not yet existed, wasn’t even a glimmer in his father’s eye. _Before_. A time when there had been peace and not fighting, diplomacy by scroll instead of by spear.

“They still have cattle there. They must, to feed soldiers,” observed Sandstorm. “Never been to the north?”

“Too dangerous… maybe Queen Blister’s forces will capture it, someday, and I might get to visit.”

“Pipe dream. Burn has her strongest presence there. We’ll never take them, not unless there’s a miracle. And Blister is a princess.”

“Pessimistic, sir?”

“Realist.”

“… There are Blaze’s guerrillas. Freedom fighters.”  
“Scrappy militia, to me,” said Sandstorm. It felt odd, to be cheering on an enemy, yet though Blaze was one of them, her forces were dragons that he might never meet, as long as he stayed on this front. “They don’t amount to much.”

“The Icewings are real soldiers, sir.”  
“True.”  
“Ever seen one?”

“No.”  
“Wish they were on our side, from what I hear,” said Dust.

“Rumors; don’t pay attention to them. Can’t be sure of anything until I’ve encountered it myself.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“And that goes for you. Don’t go off believing everything you hear, especially if it’s about crickets.”

Dust had just enough pride not to admit he’d fallen for that one, hard. He didn’t need to, for it was obvious  to anyone who had half a brain  in their skulls.  He hoped he wouldn’t be laughed at, for being a newbie.

He was kidding himself; there would be those who made fun of him, whatever he did.

“Does it bother you, talking to me at all?”

“No.”

“Oh. You’re quiet sometimes,” said Dust. “I’m afraid to talk about my troubles.. you’ve probably seen a lot more than I have. I don’t want my problems to seem… petty, if that makes sense.”  
Sandstorm kicked at the dirt.

“I know. I’ve moved on from that, those things. To rookies every problem, every win, every loss seems like a big screaming deal. To us veterans it’s just another action in a long war of actions.”  
“But -” Dust began.

“I’m not saying your problems aren’t important,” said Sandstorm. “They are. But it’s hard to care when I see them all the time. To us your hazing is routine, even. We know we should do better, should care a bit more, but it’s hard to. Not until you’ve become part of the group.”  
“I remember a joke I heard once in the desert,” began Dust. “A dragon out hiking happens on a bunch of old-timers by a campfire, telling jokes. One stands up and says ‘number eighty-four’, and they all laugh. Another stands up and goes ‘number eleven’, and they all laugh. The hiker sits down and ingratiates himself and asks ‘what’s so funny about numbers?’

‘Wal, we know so many good jokes and we’ve told them so many times that we’ve just decided to number them’.

So the guy waits until it’s his turn, stands up, and goes ‘thirty-three’. No one laughs. ‘What happened?’ he asks.

‘It’s funny, just not the way you tell it.’

Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Older soldiers won’t let the less experienced into their groups for a reason. They don’t know them. Not many do. And many of the older ones have seen a lot of faces pass. They don’t want to latch on to more, only to lose them.”

“Then I’ll have to make a group of my own?”

It should’ve been a statement, but it came out as a question.

“It’s not the best way of doing things, no. You rookies have a lot to learn that the experienced talons can teach. Sad, that they don’t often mix.”

“And they see me as a rookie.”  
“It’s what you are.”

Dust looked out again,  at the  rolling, rough fields of grass, brown cattle grazing  happily.  The dragon  who’d been counting them was out of sight, probably working behind the hill,  where there would be more livestock  who’d wandered beyond their living space in search of food.  The fences were only a formality, for them;  low stone walls  stretching away until they disappeared into the troughs of the land,  in good repair nearer the fort, but broken down, their rock weathered by the  storms  farther away.

“Arroyo said I’d be leaving, tomorrow, when I talked to him yesterday. This’ll be one of our last talks.”

“Tomorrow? That’s quick.”

“Maybe he was preoccupied,” said Dust, hopefully. The alternative was that Arroyo didn’t care a wit about what happened to one rookie. “There was the letter I delivered him.”  
“You been peeking at mail?”  
“No sir. Only taking an educated guess, sir. It must’ve been something to make him worried.”

“Most couriers get caught peeking, sooner or later. The punishment isn’t pleasant.”

“To the front?”

“No. To the rear, so they can’t get captured and blab. Ever wondered who digs all those unnecessary latrines?”  
“Oh. _Oh._”

“Once the information is out of date, they get passed on to some other job. Couriers have too much experience to get passed into a meat grinder.”

“I’m getting passed into a meat grinder?”

On second thought, Sandstorm shouldn’t have brought that up.  
“I was exaggerating,” he said, though he hadn’t been exaggerating at all. “ Pay no heed.”

“Thank you for telling me that you were pulling a fast one on me,” said Dust. “Sir.”

It stroked every officer’s ego to be called ‘sir’, but Sandstorm looked closer to sighing than smiling,  suddenly withdrawn, all of the sparkle disappearing  from his eyes . Perhaps he was thinking of another conversation with another private in another time,  maybe one who had said the same thing .  Why he should be solemn, Dust did not know.

At last  a grin played on his face, though the gli mm er did no t return to his eyes, and he spoke again. “ Them couriers have to fly into battle zones anyway,  delivering orders from  headquarters at the back lines, if they can find the units they’ve been  sent to,  and that means screwups.  A  dragon will say ‘command says go there’, and units go,  though the maps are upside down and the orders are convoluted,  and them who don’t make those control hops get sent on the Bay of Diamonds to  the  southern desert.  Wears out a pair of wings real fast. ”

Dust knew that flight. He’d made it himself. “ One of the harder jobs,  sir .”  
“Sure, but there’s no such thing as an easy job. ‘Always in for more than we bargained for’, that’s a motto.”

There was history in that saying, one which escaped Dust, and he felt that he was only s tanding in the shadow of the thunderstorm; he had never really met a courier, and so the tangible depth of it was outside of his grasp.

“I hear you’re leaving tomorrow,” said Sandstorm. “No time for cricket hunting?”

“Guess so,” said Dust. “This place… just another rest stop in a string of rest stops, sir.”

“Flight will work the soreness out of your bones. And get some practice on the range.”  
“I will.”

“Practice, practice, practice. Your life depends on it.”

A comfortable pause.  Dust sat still and thought, rather than  run his mouth.  In that saying too, lay  depth, and a hint of personal experience as well.  Sandstorm’s scar suddenly became obvious, was of more importance,  because it represented the sergeant’s combats.   
“ Did practice save you from that?” he asked,  nodding towards the oval-shaped mark on the other dragon’s  torso.

“If I hadn’t twisted, that spear might’ve gone into my heart. Could have, would have, might have. Didn’t. Keep your wrestling skills sharp, and your flying skills sharper. No sense in lizard-fighting a Mudwing when you can flame him.”

And there was an implication of the uglier side of that fighting. So much that he still had to know and learn about this, about everything. It’d be easier if Beryl was here.

“Should I spar?”  
But Sandstorm wasn’t listening. He was looking up at the darkening sky, to the south. Smallish dots in the distance flew towards the fort, orange light illuminating them from the right. And among those dragons was a signalier, from which waving flags streamed.

“No patrol’s coming from that way for an hour at least,” said Sandstorm, filling Dust in.

And he made to fly back to the fort, to see if there was any trouble that needed remedy.  But the high lookouts had already seen it,  were descending toward the  embankments, backlit.  One of their shadows passed over Dust, briefly, and he saw it race away until it joined the shadow  of the walls and disappeared  into them.

I n came the patrol, waving their flags  that Dust could not read , and  behind them,  far enough away to be whitened by haze, Dust saw  fliers in the air,  making speed in a wedge  formation. Dust put his talon over his brow, peered  closer and saw their wings beating alternately, knew t hey were tired. Still they held formation, and that told of good training, though he was no judge himself.

“Who do you think they are?”

“Supply, probably. They’re early.”

The bugle blew its sweet notes, and in its rhythm  Dust did not hear the sound of the bugle itself so much as the signal  it carried. ‘ Reinforcements ’.

“Dust, looks like you won’t have to ship out alone,” said Sandstorm, and then added: “Wonder where they got the dragons from.”

Reinforcements.  From somewhere, perhaps a long way away, dragons had  come to assist at Fort Pitt.  Which post had they been diverted from, which place had they been recruited?  They were on their way to give confidence, to fight.

“Wonder if they’ll have any news,” said Dust, but it was lost in the whoosh of Sandstorm’s takeoff.

Dust took off after him, awkwardly, for his  sore wings felt like they couldn’t flap a single beat,  but three put him high enough to glide.  He barely made it over the lip of the embankment, almost tumbled into the fort,  having no purpose to do so save  to follow Sandstorm.

At the last moment he remembered that Dun ought to be  in the barracks with his dragons, out  there in the jumble of the sleeping field, and Dust had no idea where his sergeant was,  what with the organized chaos suddenly goin g on.

There was the  feel of planning to  the mess ;  every dragon except him knew exactly what  was expected of him, was carrying out his tasks.

Down came the patr ol, and out stepped  a dragon to greet them.  A path cleared for him in the rush; grounders avoided him, off-duty soldiers made small salutes and got out of his way.  Quiet suddenly came over the courtyard, and dragons slowed to a shuffle, hanging around to hear what was said.

“How many?” came the simple question, and Dust recognized the voice as that of Mesa’s, Chief Warrant Officer. Behind him, stepping out from the keep, was Arroyo, looking professional as ever despite his ruined wing. So that was why he hadn’t come at once.

“A brigade, sir.”  
“Time till arrival?”  
“An hour.”

Two scores of scores. Over four hundred dragons – Dust nearly jumped at that, then remembered, with the pessimism that’d been drilled into him, that it was probably understrength, that the scouts had in all likelihood miscounted the newcomers, that it was probably only two battalions, or just under three hundred dragons in all, and even that might be exaggerating.

Good  news was good news,  at any rate.

“Well, what are you standing around for?” came the voice of Arroyo, carrying even more than Mesa’s had. “There’s barracks to clear, identification to be made, food to be prepared for the newcomers.”

He turned to the warrant officers, spoke to Mesa,  and then Dust lost int erest.

As in the morning, sergeants  barked orders – a field needed to be cleared of stones, the ground smoothed for the new arrivals  to sleep on. More water needed to be drawn from the wells, in case th e incoming brigade drank through the available  supply. Necessary-pits needed to be dug, and a patrol was put up over the livestock to deter privates, hungry from their long flight, from stealing  the cattle  vital to the fort’s supplies.

“Soderni!” came a voice from his left, and Dust ignored it, until someone clapped him on the back. It was one of the soldiers he’d flown patrol with, taller than him but just as wiry, which gave the dragon a lanky, uncoordinated appearance that belied his true flying ability, which might have been a little better than Dust’s. “Dun wants you helping the wing. Dunno about you, but I don’t want to be doing extra laps tomorrow, if I can help it.”

Dust took this as the incentive that it was,  and when the  other dragon took off, he less  floated from the ground than surged, though his wings  felt like metal weights dragging him down – if only  because  he didn’t  want the soldier to get stuck with doing extra PT. As  for him, he’d be long gone before Dun could inflict much punishment, though that  thought leaned tow ard the sly.

Dun was no Cholla.

“No way that’s really a brigade, no way,” said the soldier, as they came down by Dun’s wing, still organizing itself. “Cause the last time we got reinforcements all the patrols were running around like their heads are cut off, squawkin’ ‘there’s a regiment coming, there’s a regiment coming!’ at the the top of their lungs, and we wait for it and we wait for it and it’s two companies and an engineer and the rest of the battalion was casualties of the Skywings and I go ‘what regiment?’.”

“Really?”

“And we’re all working our tails off for the grand reception and the new arrivals fit into the barracks no problem. What a disappointment.”

“Soldiers aren’t chatterboxes. Get over here and help clean up this mess,” said Dun, waving loosely at the external barracks standing, in a surprisingly organized way, on the field. “A space in the middle clear for a brigade and its support, with every rock picked out of it and level enough for a Seawing to stand on fresh out of water. And I mean every rock, not every other one of every other one. Move it.”  
“Sir, yes sir.”

“Ain’t no ground flat enough to keep a splasher’ from falling on his snout,” grumbled someone, and there was a laugh.

“Not in my company,” said Dun. “Not under my wing.” A warning glance, and the chuckles fell silent.

“Hist; here comes Crescent,” said someone.  
“Clear the ground offside,” he said. “Not as much stuff to move.” Dun frowned at that, for some reason, but the rest of his company perked up.

“We’ll be having the MP guys stationed by the fort, but first reception is out here,” continued Crescent. “Your job is to make this place look less like a dump and more like the shining establishment it is, with the exception that it’s not shiny or an establishment.”

“Pitt’s the best damn establishment this side of the Bay. Scarlet’s palace don’t hold a candle to it,” said one of Dust’s wingmates in a not-quite-whisper.

“Less talking, more working,” said Dun, but everyone smiled anyway.

There was plenty of work to be done. Offside  the soil was more rocky  than within the bounds of camp, if that was possible,  the dirt scraped where dragons had landed  before, probably to get to the range  and to train;  sandy grass eaten down to the roots,  the  brown culprits mooing from  the other side of a stone fence.  If  it were any  rockier , the ground would’ve been made  of gr avel.  More to the point,  some of the stones were  sharp and flat, just the kind that worked themselves between scales  until they were we ll-nigh impossible to remove, and  only  then did they cut at the unprotected flesh.  Dust  raised his tail and steered clear of them.

The rock was thrown into a pile,  and the pile was  scraped into old storage crate s ,  and the storage crate s w ere taken  and dum ped behind a hill, in the pastures in the back forty,  though really the fort owned all of the land  that wasn’t held by the enemy.

Minus  the land kept by the locals, but then, Dust hadn’t seen any locals.  Either they’d fled the war or  were holed up, not talking to anybody.  He might see  one one day,  dead, with no one to send a letter  home for him.  Sometimes,  Dust thought, the suspense of  not knowing what had happened was almost worse  than knowing for sure  that the dragon in question had died. Almost.

‘Dear Mrs. Sonderi, we regret to inform you…’

‘Lotta people hit the dirt when the rocks did…’ came a thought, remembering that day when… and Dust stared at the rock in his talon, turned it face-up in his palm. It was a rounded stone, so harmless, but dropped from a great height, it could kill.

He wouldn’t die.  The very thought was unthinkable, so he  didn’t think it.

“Get a move on, Sonderi,” said Dun, and Dust came back to the real world, took a deep breath to steady himself and make sure everything was all there.

At least the sergeant knew his name.

So they worked, until Mesa came back again and nodded,  and Crescent nodded back, and said, “You’re done,”  and  a few  dragons dared to say, “Not really,”  and Dust wondered if the chatter was just a way of livening  up  a  conversation with no spring, no levity.  Just another task finished, and in a few minutes there’d be another, and another,  until…  until what?

Curfew, maybe.

And in the meantime  the dragons in the distance had flown closer, so that they were no longer specks  wagging smaller specks to  Dust’s eyes,  but took on some detail.  Perhaps they were ten miles out – no, five,  and at their speed, they could be here in twenty minute s, or fifteen, or ten.

A grounder brought weapons - “Why?” asked Dust, and someone said “Shush.  Just in case they’re enemy. There goes a patrol,  to check ‘em out. M-Ps.”

In the air waved  a set of flags, one green, one with a pattern on it  that Dust did not know,  and he did not ask what it was, so as not to seem foolish. He would learn soon, wouldn’t he?

And the patrol came back, and just as quickly the grounders made their rounds and disappeared again, back through the grimy gates, though some, Dust noted,  stowed the spears inside  clay chests, those that lay next to the cabin, under the step, and looked awfully like coffins.

Dun kept his weapon, and so did all the other sergeants on up through the ranks, but Dust had only his twenty talons. Still, he did his best to stand high as he could and let his claws click, almost as it had been at roll call.

A fluttering in the wind,  a rustle of fabric, and Dust  looked away from the approaching dragons  and toward the sound; here came the standard-bearer, and above him, borne by the new breeze,  black-and-gold banner rippling, and its shadow stretching far away from the dragon who carried it,  cast by the light of impending dusk .  It took Dust back to the morning, only the sun was in the west and not in the east,  and the grass was warm and dry instead of cool and wet, crinkling beneath his talons.  But for all the change,  the standard-bearer was no less noble and proud .

The tan dragon went down the hastily-formed line, and at last the reinforcements landed, a Sandwing at their head, exhausted, as Dust had been when he had come, and in need of rest; not a brigade in number, but closer to two battalions, if Dust was any guess, almost swallowed as he was in the crowd.

Not quite rowdy, not quite ordered, the newcomers milled about, waiting  to be checked, though all the papers lay with the officers, who produced them, and every dragon had his own little seal. There wasn’t much the M-Ps could do, save check the soldiers against their descriptions, and find anything that differed, for they had no way of knowing, really, whether the person who was described  on the parchment was the person standing before them in the flesh,  but could only make their best guess.

The officers were cleared,  and  the dragons from Fort Pitt came out, and ushered them in to Arroyo, doubtless to give news, and correspondence  from far, far away – perhaps, Dust thought, even as  distant as the place from which he had come,  in the desert.

It would take  time to check the rest of the arrivals, the soldiers, who were corralled off, waiting, so that no spy could sneak out  and infiltrate the fort,  without anyone noticing.

“Do them in batches, do them in batches,” came a voice, Mesa’s, and as he had seniority, the M-Ps did, and dragons were cleared, one flight at a time, and let into the mess to eat.

Dust clung to them, as many other privates did; some looking to see if anyone they knew had arrived, some to make small talk. Most of  the old guard wanted to grab an extra bite,  after supper,  and all of them wanted to hear news.

The newcomers ate, ravenously,  and almost exhausted the  supply of food, till  fresh cows were brought;  still  before the best of their prime, and that was why they had not been slaughtered yet. Still, there were hungry appetites to feed. They ate, and they ate, and they ate till their officers  reprimanded them so that they wouldn’t fill themselves to bursting, and when they were done eating, they wiped their mouths  with their forearms and began to talk.

* * *


End file.
